The Peach Orchard

As spring arrives here in Florida and the days begin to be hot, here's an old favorite -- a sweet, sensual interlude from my poetry collection "Touch in the Bed of Light".

The Peach Orchard

I bite the flesh of a peach,

with the air around me so thick with humidity

that sweat has become a liquid skin,

stinging on tiny cuts on my palms,

From where I have bent down the branch

to steal its fruit.

I will bring its flavor to you, on my tongue.

I see your face,

framed in the shadow of that same night,

my lips subtly swollen

where you have taken them in your teeth.

I feel the arch of your foot,

as you curl your legs upward.

The same rough palm of my hand

takes your ankle, and you are open to me.

There is a growl in your throat,

the coiled muscles of the night

finding voice in you.

Outside our window,

the peach orchard stirs

in a breeze that heralds rain.

Its scent of ripened life surrounds us,

and you moan, tasting the approaching moment.

When the rain comes, it will wash the heat

from every laden branch.